The 7 wonders of the world
Is quite a sight to see
But it don't compare to what we have
In the hills of Tennessee
Uncle Zebs cow is a big ole thing
Quite a sight to behold
That cow's so big that when they milk her
Her udders even have to unfold
Cousin Zeke has a six-legged mule
And man that thing is fast
One time he raced a bobcat
And the bobcat finished last
My granny's teeth are made of wood
Of course, they were bought from a store
But ever since that termite season
She don't use them much no more
Aunt Imojean has a twine collection
That she started when she was three
I guess if we unwound that thing
It'd reach clear 'cross Tennessee
Cousin Jake has a rattlesnake
He pickled and stuffed in a jar
He caught that thing a year ago
Trying to run off with his car
Uncle Randolph has this chicken
Who howls and barks at the moon
That poor chicken is so dadgum old
That she has to be fed with a spoon
Uncle Sam has the seventh wonder
An invisible moonshine still
We ain't seen it since he made it
But it's somewhere on that hill
So, after you think you've seen it all
You haven't seen anything yet
Come to the hills of Tennessee
And see things you'll never forget

They told me you'ld be ravenous
I thought it was a farse
Until you ate my baseball cards
And bit me in the ars
They said you would not like it here
So far from Sutter's farm
And living in the suburbs
would only do you harm
They said you need mountain side
At home there you would feel
Until you meet a bobcat
and become a hearty meal
I say you are content right here
Or so it seems to me
I let you in on real cold nights
and all your food is free
They say a goat can be no pet
So why do I pretend
I tell them that you are no pet
But you have become my friend.

Night one on the new river, the campfire is spirited
and the future appears hospitable,
everyone has their rations, everybody is resting their pride
for on an expedition epic to each man and for a republic as well
souls must stand sober to undomesticated circumstance and calamity's call,
Dickson and Flyod are on watch duty tonight, in the elms they sit and listen,
disaster and death demand our respect, the mission necessitates that we be prey,
I trust that Sea Man, my Newfoundland dog will be watching them,
with his final moments of strength before sleep Clark, as cartographer
has begun making his meticulous map in the mild candle light,
the compasses look like brass arrows
aimed into a sketch of ghostly renaissance landscape,
as my mind begins to collapse into the corners of subconscious creation
I ruminate on the journey of Marco Polo, his reception into the court of Kubla Khan
exotic enlightenment exchanged between the tapestries of curious threats
and the gravity of Indian relations pulls my attention within the sphere of brute diplomacy,
For several days I've been hiking the interior woodlands
alternating the cohort daily to provide total exercise, to subdue monotony
and also to perpetuate the fearless fascination that they'll need
to revere the suffering and ensuing success of the mission,
it is not unusual for us to hike 40 miles a day, our Kentucky rifles and senses clean
rendezvouing with the crew and camp near dusk delivering game, grunge and odd wonders,
we are all deft huntsmen, in the east hunting was a passion as well as a necessity
all of the recruits are outdoorsman, tough, roudey and rude but also smart as prarie hawks
Clark and I are Virginian Gentleman, prepared to kill with cause and to lead with clear authority,
it is crucial that we supplement the keelboat's food provisions
with fresh meat, fruits and vegetables whenever feasible,
on board there are tons of soup, pork, cormeal, flour, beans, salt, pepper and lard,
many barrels of whiskey have been brought along for emotional nourishment and as gift,
every evening each man receives his four ounces, and every night they absorb the gruel of toil,
this afternoon I was surveying the land for agricultural fitness
and collecting botanical specimens such as the dogtooth violet, dovesfoot and cowslip flowers
Peter Cruzzatte, the best big game tracker of the bunch
shot and field dressed two meaty deer and a fat elk,
he is stealth as sin in the Sunday wind, our bellies thank him,
no natives have been seen yet,
while observing and hunting we have found thin trails
that simply lead into quiet expanses,
this tighens the nerves a bit
we are anxious to establish affable feelings with the numerous tribes, especially the Sioux,
the English trapper Bobcat Pendleton whom we met two days ago
said that the Yankton Sioux held territory about two hundred miles up river,
he also indifated that the Sioux weren't skin dressers
that they'd play hard,
he said the Sioux Nation weren't interested in speeches and medals,
they would demand tribute,
beads, amo, whiskey, tobacco,
Clark and I are prepared to impress, one way or the other,
tonight the river is lying still, like a woman with a wish in her heart,
the moon is high and golden plump, nestled in a ripple of smokey clouds,
J.A.B.

In a canoe casting with a weighted rubber worm
Felt something aggressive thing hit my hook
Up it came through the water’s surface
And shot up more than three feet in the air.
After some displays of acrobatic leaps and drives,
I finally got him at the side of my canoe
Banging, thrashing like a bobcat in a box,
Whispered, “Hello, I believe in catch and release”
The bass stopped thrashing, listened intently
Then said, “never thought I’d meet one like you”
I grabbed the mighty fish by the lower jaw
Holding it up for a closer look. removed the hook.
Wiggled off to parts unknown of the cool lake
It was happy to be free, I was happy to catch.center>
+++++++++
Date: March 7, 2014
Free Verse
12th Place win
Contest : by Caleb Smith

A breath of fresh air, after the table was cleared
we had poured ourselves, one last sip of wine
We marveled a bit over the dip of the sun
An interlude, before the tint had resigned
to the gun-metal gray, and a time to reside
Our solitude broken and it changed on a dime
Unprepared for the guest, which came in a flash
A gash cut by lightning lit up through the dust
without even hinting, as flint hit the stone
A grumbling sky, turned the blush trembling cold
A roar of the wind, where a beast could be heard
all that was peaceful, became quite disturbed
Over rolls of the hills, it stalked like a cat
a monster, of clouds, on gray bobcat feet
with lynx-like eyes, and with billowing fur
that spurned tranquil eyes, on the softer retreat
A fierce witch's brew, uncoiled with wrath
with wind from the breast of sage and the dunes
Gliding in from the fields, to rage and to seize
where pillars and posts would snap, just to please
Eerie sounds whistled through the long window sills
The peace no longer held calm or a still
Angry whips with each breath, cracking fearsome with sound
Pounding with rain, gnashing teeth, with each round
Shingles turned loose to mingle with limbs
The thunder, was plundering, and peeling the plains
Rain gushing down, forging new creeks
pushing fast rivulets and forging new steel
We wait until the wrath has spent all it's worth
With gusto, and grit, .... until a last final vent
A tantrum with wiles, till the cat takes a bow
The monster has gone, to climb to the hills
_____________________________________________
For P.D.'s Contest: "Epic Sightings"
Picture #2

One morning, sometime in the Fall,
we went up to our cottage on the lake,
and I put on my camoflauge,
and sharpened my broadheads for the hunt.
My dad and I walked silently through the gray woods,
noting every little barkscrape on the thick trees,
carefully picking our way around brush and ferns.
We found the blind,
a simple affair of branches and logs.
Sitting down, I stretched my bow taut in anticipation,
feeling the plastic fletch on the cold carbon shaft.
A grouse stomped through, a noisy bird,
and my heart started to beat;
I thought it was a deer,
but relaxed infinitely when I daw the fat bird.
Not ten minutes later,
the call of a whooping crane shook me from my thoughts,
and I saw a little figure creeping towards us.
A bobcat, small and lithe,
crept past us,
slinking low to the ground,
the little stump-for-a-tail- held low,
and I smiled at the little feline,
though it didn't smile back.
My feet were cold,
we went back to the truck without a sound.
I love hunting with Daddy.

With a whirr and grind
Slowly creeps up inching along
Then the banging sounds
The "Bobcat" reaches his paw
Out as far as it can
Pulling back black plastic
Discarded cardboard boxes
Tidbits of vegetables, file thirteen coupons
Last nights scrapes
Then the male voices
Men in banana yellow shirts
Permanently stained
Men who come once or twice weekly
Creeping along
Getting the tough smelly job done..

Wild Blue Land
Such wind rushed by nearly blowing me to the side;
filling my vision so wide, wide dotted with white puffs,
rolling clumps, or whispy streaks of froth;
gliding slyly in the ocean of an azure sky.
Breaking the horizon in ochre, brown, black and beige
rock spires and pointed mounds from ancient days;
tabletops of plateaus and animal trails
look deceptively simple to climb
The'people', the "Dine'" arrived in weathered skin and tired eyes;
medicine men and women knew this vision, this home,
this antidiluvian place of horse, eagle, coyote and bobcat.
Myriad thousands of years they roamed;
wandering across wind swept steppes,
a frigid ice bridge, aboriginal forest, towering mountain vistas;
spirits soaring and dreaming abroad on uplifted wings of imaginings.
They knew this place, this fractured land an ocean of lifetimes away;
caverns and winding insanely beatific canyons
carved by swift waters and time,
petrified forests and painted deserts, memories of wetter climes.
Mesas etched by ethereal unfettered winds,
a place both desolate and strongly beautiful;
perhaps as history suggests, from a tribe
as ancient, who lived here before them;
but time and fortune are not always kind
blending arts and people as it winds.
The sand tells all, swooshing in the gusts,
moving like a tide across the highness
painted with holy hands to heal and mend
that which was whole, then splintered by hate,
greed, and misunderstanding again,
dancing like the horses and
celebrate in the baskets
towards unity again.

There are no butterflies as yesterday at eve, no birds that sing only quiet ease
Is it too early? Have I arisen before they? Where are the feeders, on the nest far away?
Have they left for a far country to spend the short winter's day?
Where are the ones that entertain me? I am distrubed today...
Maybe I should explore more carefully to see what has happened in the yard..
Is there a cougar or a bobcat? Or housecat that fear arouse....
How can I make it without my lovely friends?
I will have to buy some storebought and try to fence them in..
Maybe they will come later or what if not at all...
I will be sad and lonely with no friends at my call...
Click on "About This Poem"

Whose eyes shine in the night like balls of fire?
Whose paw could break a whole empire?
Whose strength could dam a river in niger?
I say, It is the Indian Tiger.
Who could use its paw to break,
A great stag's skull and overtake,
A antelope running toward the horizon?
I say, it is the African Lion.
Whose voice is a scream instead of a roar?
Who drops down from its tree on a boar?
Whose leap is far and its aim sure?
I say, It is the American Cougar.
Whose speed can fly past the great giraffe?
Who at our run would surely laugh?
Who lives on the dry plains of Africa?
I say, it is the spotted cheetah.
Whose leap is accurate and eyes very keen,
Who like a house cat keeps very clean?
Who eats birds and mice a lot?
I say, it is the sly ocelot!
Who is smaller than the ocelot and faster than a deer?
Whose ears are very keen and it's vision far and clear?
Who reminds me at least of the Egyptian Sphinx?
I say, it is the Canadian Lynx.
Who runs quite fast up trees so high?
Who in races with dogs would only tie?
Who eats other prey but mostly the rat?
I say, it is the little bobcat.
Now who does man consider friend?
Who with mice a hand does lend?
Who plays with paper and this and that?
I say, it is the tiny house cat!

Wild hoof beats rumble this night, and rattle my window panes
The day had not noticed that dark clouds tiptoed in on bobcat feet
Stomping feet, like a spoiled child, a storm vents, cries, then flees
____________________________
For the "On Your Feet" Contest
Sponsor: Nette Onclaud
By Carrie Richards 1/29/12

Watching crows eat roadkill in Montana, my rifle slung across my shoulder,
early morning workers sweating, cursing, as they break apart a boulder
Ice cream truck stops by the roadside, driver shouting “come and get it”,
A lumbering moose the only taker, the angry driver shouts “forget it”.
The river overflows into the valley’s golden corn fields
The farmers lay large sand bags, they fear to loose their yields
Crop duster circles as the crows fly in pursuit
of falling butterflies and ladybugs who perched upon the fruit.
The poison claimed their short lived lives today
bees flee, birds scatter, all escaping from the spray
The bobcat spies the moose, in all it’s forest glory
pouncing on its back it sinks its teeth, I cannot watch, too gory.
Thunder in the valley, rain falls ‘cross the land
a forest dweller begs for help, he needs a helping hand
“My daughter ran away without a word into the city,
I only ask for where to search, I do not ask for pity”.
“Dear man what can I say, I’m just a hunter, not raised in Hollywood,
where only bad girls find their way there”, the old man understood
He slowly disappears beyond the trees, and softly moans,
The crows have finished with the roadkill and only left the bones.
And me, I think I’ll patch my jeans, and jump into the water
and climb into my pickup truck, go searching for his daughter
I hold a picture I was given, as he walked into the woods
I must admit she is a beauty, and has the proper goods
To drive this man to find her, before she disappears,
into the crowded city streets, that drive young girls to tears
The beauty of Montana, the forest and the farms,
will call me back I pray, with his daughter in my arms

Let's cut our hair
locks lopped off in hopes of
style and convenience
only because everything in the media
had announced it so
to look one of two ways
stupid or not
the dichotomy of breathing
intermixed with thinking
a miscreant's
entreaty
based upon the logarithm of dog drool
of other's crisis mind fux=
a cute bob with fringe
perhaps, a beehive to capture errant thoughts
in clouds of hairspray
like ricky lake eating more cake
like the earthy done shaky
like prickly pear sports shake
like trickling ear sweat bakes
like a crepe
just spend the time
emulsifying the generations
tell stories, freak out the other one
basically, have fun

I could not understand why, my biology teacher said there is a fever in your thigh.
Where do you put the thermometer? I did not ask; for I was weigh to shy.
Driving my pick-up, I went to see my uncle, the Honorable Judge Marvel.
My neighbor’s driveway will be repaired; I’m hear to get the gavel.
It’s Halloween; the children costumes: Ghosts, Witches, and a Bobcat.
I have to ask, wear is the kid dressed as a goblet?
Inspired by Vernette Hutcherson's Featured Kimo--" Mixed Breed "
Dedicated to Vernette Hutcherson

The Psychic Raven
(Inspired from E.A.
Poe- The Raven)
The red hawk stares across the prairie wide
The eagle glides over all that he is lord
A lonesome vulture sails above a mountainside
And the psychic raven whispers
evermore
The red fox hunts throughout a charcoal night
The raccoon searches on the river shore
A wary rabbit keeps his castle den in sight
And the psychic raven whispers
evermore
The bobcat prowls around a woodland pond
The beaver hides behind his oaken door
Fireflies pulsate like a magic wand
And the psychic raven whispers
evermore
Pick-rel lurk among the water grass
Bullheads patrol the muddy floor
Minnows lie to hide their silver mass
And the psychic raven whispers
evermore
Stones are served to famished border towns
Prelude to an ever-forming war
Rebellion brings another cap-tal down
And the psychic raven whispers
evermore

Under the silvery light of the moon,
I heard the cry of a distant loon.
Closer by I detected the bark,
Of a lone coyote out in the dark.
The wild bobcat out on the prowl,
Stirred up the screeching of a midnight owl.
While crickets sang a happy refrain,
I heard the whistle of a nearby train.
Competing with the urgent siren whine,
Was the soft humming of the telephone lines.
And the trickling of a sleepy stream,
Lulled me fast into a friendly dream.

Along the forest floor I creep,
not wishing to disturb inhabitants living there.
Treading on pine needles ankle deep,
as if nature had placed a carpet,
so I wouldn't disturb its sleep.
The forest, having long been asleep,
appearing drowsy, begins now to wake
and from somewhere into the deep.
A chorus of Coyotes, yapping in song,
before denning up to sleep.
Have I given them cause for fear?
Are they telling me perhaps I don't belong,
having sensed that I am near?
Or another of natures marvelous ways,
of making music for my ear.
My occasional snapping of a twig
has alerted a Fox Squirrel somewhere near.
Perhaps in a nearby oak so big.
It's chattering, as if at odds, over acorns
being devoured by Blue Jays or a grunting pig.
With snowflakes now floating from the sky
my eyes are now directed overhead,
and though not seen by eye,
I hear sounds of passing Geese,
as further south they fly.
An occasional hissing and as I turn to see,
somewhat apprehensive, but with no fears.
There walking the trunk of a fallen tree,
a Bobcat singing It's part,
like others, A Capella, just for me.

Over rolling hills, it tiptoes in on bobcat feet
With Lynx-like eyes, and billowing clouds of gray
And turns the hush of twilight's blood red sky
Into a witches brew, alive with piercing cries
A wind that coils in the breast of dunes
Gliding in from distant lands, Saguaro sands
Eerie sounds whistle through window sills
The chill of what was peaceful and still
Has turned to anger, fear and dread
Wildness arrives on chariots with mighty steeds
The monsoon thrives, while a desert blanches dead
It gnashes teeth with biting winds
Shaking shingles, tree trunks bend
The pouring thunder, lightning peels
Rain gushes down as strong as steel
We wait until the wrath is spent
At last with gusto,....a final vent
Like spoiled child it takes a bow
There's nothing but a murmur now
The wretched carpet left behind
Broken wings from dark of night
Trees and limbs are battered hosts
Cacti lift their arms to toast
The remnant of a monsoon's ghost
.................................
Inspired by Paula's Monsoon Contest

It loomed dark inside so I ventured out.
The snowstorm left us powerless.
I can barely lift my shovel in protest
As the bobcat steamrolls ahead.
Stop trudging over my work!
But the driver could care less.
He is paid an hourly rate.
My daughter thinks he is cool,
Or his vehicle is,
The yellow throne upon which he
Reigns, above it all.
Mighty, and high,
Traversing ice and branches and
Frozen feelings.
He plows through moments frosted over,
Ones I cannot retrieve
No matter how hard I dig in.
I pick through the remnants of the damage exacted.
I claw at what melts...
And come up with this.